


Resurgence

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2019 [1]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Military, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Siblings, Strong Language, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-03-30 22:49:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19037107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Jacob is not weak.





	Resurgence

The war came back with such vengeance, but Miller came back worse.  
  
Miller died from a bullet to the back of the head.  
  
Jacob didn’t draw it out, didn’t let on that that was what he was gearing up to do; Miller died thinking that the situation was dire, but that they were a team, comrades in arms, and that they’d find a way out or die trying. He never had a chance to think otherwise, never had a chance to feel fear, because Jacob Seed was a ruthless sonofabitch but he wasn’t a complete monster.  
  
(Yet.)  
  
Doing what you _had_ to didn’t always feel good. Eating healthy didn’t always feel good, but it kept you alive longer; getting shots sucked, but they protected you from preventable diseases. Likewise, killing Miller hadn’t felt good, hadn’t felt good at all, and Jacob was not _proud_ of what he’d done to one of the few people in this world he’d been able to call a friend. He’d done what was necessary to keep himself alive, and that was the end of it.  
  
Incidentally it was also the end of his military career; nobody ever found Miller’s body (or what was left of it), the wolves had probably dragged it off somewhere, but the nightmares and the almost manic temperament Jacob had developed afterwards had made him too unstable for active military service. Not too long after a return from the desert, underweight and dehydrated but alive and unharmed, Jacob exploded in the mess-hall and sent three men to the infirmary.  
  
(“So you really have no idea where Miller is?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Barton chuckled. “Maybe he ate him.”)  
  
Jacob was eventually diagnosed with PTSD and declared unfit for service, the higher-ups treating him like he was an especially volatile mixture of chemicals that would blow them all sky-high if shaken too hard. And if Jacob was being honest, he _felt_ like a goddamn nuclear bomb that would wipe out miles of people and buildings if he didn’t keep himself in check, so their assessment wasn’t too far off at all.  
  
They sent Jacob home to Georgia.  
  
To a fucking _mental_ hospital.  
  
Oh, sure, it was a military hospital, but it wasn’t hard to figure out that ninety percent of the Vets there were being treated for non-physical conditions. Jacob figured it out easily enough without even talking to the other guys, and then wallowed in the fact that he was- once a- _fucking_ -gain- stuck in a facility. Welcome to his childhood post-Duncans, where his life was one-hundred percent controlled and monitored by authority figures he neither liked nor trusted.  
  
In his sessions with the doctors, Jacob found himself reverting to the same behavior he’d shown as a teenager: Crossing his arms and offering monosyllabic answers, or not answering at all. To their credit, these doctors actually seemed to grasp that the distrust and the anger and the bitterness he was experiencing was coming from a very specific place, and so they didn’t roll their eyes or play hardball or threaten to give him demerits for not being cooperative. They spoke to him like an adult, with a decent amount of respect even when he was difficult.  
  
“Boy,” Jacob grunted one day, “You got a real long rope, don’t you doc?”  
  
Dr. Acker shrugged. “I’ll be blunt, Master Sergeant,” That was a Thing here, they insisted on referring to you by your rank unless you asked otherwise, probably out of some half-assed attempt at respect, “You’re an adult. Can’t change if you don’t want to, and I’m willing to wait until you’re ready. I’m getting paid either way.”  
  
Jacob kind of appreciated the honesty.  
  
So he cracked- just a _little_ bit, anyway. Muttered a little bit about how he and his brothers were raised, about how batshit religious their parents were, about the abuse, about how he hadn’t seen Joseph or John in years. But Jacob spoke in general terms and never, _ever_ , got into that ‘and-how-does-that-make-you- _feeeeel_ ’ bullshit. He’d been guarding his emotions for nearly thirty years and didn’t much care to share them with some doctors whose job it was to poke and prod him until his soft spots were exposed.  
  
Jacob just told the truth, and nothing else.  
  
All the while, his symptoms fluctuated: He slept irregularly, he had random bursts of temper that he couldn’t push off on a stressful and abusive home-life, and nightmares up the fuckin’ wazoo. He often dreamt of Miller gagging on his own blood, staring up at him and silently asking _why? Why, Seed? Why the fuck did you do this to me?_ It never actually happened, but it didn’t stop Jacob from waking up feeling like he was having a heart-attack.  
  
Before the army, Jacob had never had any special reason to examine his behavior in-depth or look critically upon himself because everything he’d done was justified, whether it was brawling with his father or setting that goddamn barn on fire. But now self-doubt haunted him: He had unquestionably done the pragmatic thing by killing Miller and- and keeping himself alive, but had it been _necessary?_ He’d been found four days later and given medical assistance. It would have been tight, perhaps impossible, but maybe he and Miller could have held on until then.  
  
Logically, Jacob understood that he couldn’t have _known_ that. He’d made his decision based on the established factors of that moment and time, and determined that he would sacrifice Miller to save himself. It was cold, it was ruthless, and the average human being would look upon him with disgust if they ever knew, but Jacob had obeyed his survival instincts and _voila_ , he was alive and Miller was not.  
  
Still, doubt bit at him.  
  
Jacob figured it was the remnants of what little conscience he had trying to get some air. He found it annoying and troubling and tried to ignore it, tried to shove Jiminy Cricket back into his goddamn cage and drown him so that he didn’t have to consider whether or not he’d done the right thing. Years of religion had sent Jacob in the opposite direction, and he did not think there was anything left after death, so better to be pragmatic and alive than sentimental and dead.  
  
And if God _was_ real, He could take it up with Jacob on the day of his own death.  
  
Eventually, things went bad.  
  
Eventually, the money ran out.  
  
Eventually, Jacob had to leave the hospital.  
  
Eventually, he didn’t have anywhere to go.  
  
It wasn’t until he’d been out on the streets for a couple of months that Jacob could fully appreciate what a (comparatively) safe and stable environment the hospital was. It was, by virtue of being a hospital, quiet; most of the guys there had PTSD, and knew better than to sneak up on or act aggressively towards another patient; and the routine offered some degree of normalcy, predictability, which leant to the sense of stability he’d felt from day to day.  
  
But on the streets, especially in the homeless shelters, there was little stability to be had. There were too many people all around him, and Jacob’s nerves were raw from trying to keep track of who was where and making sure no one got the drop on him. It didn’t help that some of the people in the shelter were very obviously drug addicts- and most of the obvious ones were not the kind you’d see on those TV documentaries or freak-show talk-show circuits, cleaned up to be chastised on national television at the hands of their families. No, these were the hardcore ones, the fucking Angel Dust addicts that would cut you to get the demons out from under your skin. Jacob kept a solid ten feet between him and them when he could.  
  
He was getting thinner, and dirtier, and less… Less _glued_ , so to speak. He was becoming _un_ glued, the unmedicated and untreated PTSD wreaking havoc on his mind. Sometimes he swore he could see Miller in the crowd of people in the shelter; sometimes people yelled at him for waking up screaming in the night. It was like being in the juvenile justice system all over again: Everyone was on their own, survival of the fittest, and Jacob was the gazelle with the gimpy leg falling to the back of the pack. Every moment of every day he felt the metaphorical lions circling.  
  
Sometimes, he got beat up. Malnourished and exhausted, Jacob didn’t make for the formidable opponent he once was, and he got his ass kicked seven ways to Sunday the few times he ended up tussling with someone. He’d once sworn, not long after he’d turned fifteen and shot up and bulked out and got big enough to stand a fighting chance against his abusers, that he was never gonna take a beating lying down again.  
  
Boy, what a cocky fucking kid he’d been.  
  
The days blended together, and sometimes Jacob was so exhausted and hungry and just _not_ well that he would spend the day on a bed, curled up and staring at the wall. That was what he was doing that day, the day things changed so radically for him, the day that started _everything_ that would snowball into something serious years down the line.  
  
“Jacob?”  
  
There were two guys beside the bed, one standing, one kneeling. Jacob stared at them incomprehensibly, not recognizing either of them but still sensing that he ought to- how the hell else would they know his name? Were they from the hospital? Were they some former comrades of his down on their luck now too? He doubted it, the kid on the right had a bunch of tattoos on his forearms, big noticeable ones that the army would have quickly rejected him for. Shame, because the kid was built well enough that he could’ve done well with basic training, the other guy too, Jacob wondered if they were brothers from their dark hair and blue…  
  
…Blue eyes. Those eyes were familiar.  
  
And now that Jacob looked closer, now that he was concentrating, there was something about these two that _did_ seem familiar. The facial-hair threw him off because it made them look so much older, but _God_ , these two looked almost like they could be…  
  
Like they could be…  
  
“Joe?” Jacob croaked. “John?”  
  
John’s face- his adult, bearded face- split into a wide grin reminiscent of the little boy he’d once been. “He remembers us!”  
  
And while Jacob saw the physical resemblances, he didn’t see much of the Joseph he’d once knew in the face of the man kneeling beside him. “It’s good to see you, Jacob,” He whispered. “It’s so good to see you.”  
  
They took him home.  
  
Well, to John’s home.  
  
The reality of how much time they’d spent apart hit Jacob like a baseball bat to the jaw. John had become some big-shot lawyer that did drugs and drank and fucked indiscriminately, all with a sort of inherent mania that unsettled Jacob considerably. And Joseph, well…  
  
Joseph wanted to start a fucking cult.  
  
Because why not?  
  
“You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” Jacob asked dully, looking between John and Joseph like he expected them to both start busting a gut. “You want to start a friggin’ _cult_ , Joseph?”  
  
“It’s not a-”  
  
“ _It’s basically a cult._ ”  
  
“I think he’s telling the truth,” John whispered later when the two of them were alone. “I think he really does hear the voice of God.”  
  
Jacob had spent enough time in state care, the Veteran’s hospital _and_ in various homeless shelters to know that ninety-nine percent of the time to know that any man who claimed God was talking back to him was either deep in the religious hole, or cuckoo for cocoa-puffs crazy; or, some mixture of both. And as shitty as it sounded, Jacob kind of preferred the idea of Joseph being crazy to being super-super ‘God whispers in my ear’ religious. It made him sour to think that their father’s bullshit had infected Joseph deeply enough that he would take up the mantle of religious nut as an adult.  
  
But as the days passed, Jacob… Well, he didn’t exactly warm up to the idea of going back to a religion he’d whole-heartedly fled from as a child, but Joseph started talking about strength, about a need to prepare for what was coming. “You,” He said, voice so very calm and reasonable and convincing, “Would be the perfect person to do that. You’re a soldier.” Joseph’s lips twitched into a small smile. “And you have always embodied strength.”  
  
_Not always_ , Jacob thought, fighting to keep a straight face.  
  
“To survive the Collapse, we will need to be strong. We will need to be prepared. We will need to have people capable of fighting, and you could be the one to train them.” Joseph shrugged lightly. “Forgive my ignorance, but as Master Sergeant you would have led and trained others before, would you not?”  
  
“Sometimes,” Jacob conceded warily. “So you’re asking me to train an army.”  
  
Joseph nodded. “Essentially.”  
  
Jacob would have been far less wary about it all if religion were not a factor. Crazy Prepper Commune in the woods of Montana? Sure, cool, whatever. Crazy _Religious_ Prepper Commune in the woods of Montana? Fuck that, he’d had God shoved down his throat enough for one lifetime.  
  
But Jacob’s resolve cracked and crumbled much faster than it had at the hospital.  
  
This time it was his brothers, and he’d never been able to resist them for long.  
  
So eventually Jacob agreed: They and Joseph’s little flock of followers would go to Montana and set up shop there. John, newly clean, would work his lawyer fuckery to get land for them and protect them from any interference, Jacob would train the followers in the ways of guns and self-defense, and Joseph would organize everything else.  
  
His head had gotten a hell of a lot better since Jacob had found Joseph and John again- partly because he was in a reasonably safe and stable environment with people he trusted implicitly, and partly because John had the money to procure the necessary medication for the PTSD. But the stress of the upcoming move to Montana put him on edge again, and rising anxiety tickled the parts of his brain that he preferred to stay quiet.  
  
Joseph had some sort of idea, plucked from the parts of the Bible that their father and foster parents had not seen fit to scream at them as children, that God would forgive anything so long as the apology was sincere; Jacob was of the opinion that some shit was just not forgivable, and shooting your friend in the head and eating parts of him were on the short list of things that couldn’t be forgiven.  
  
And that was fine, because Jacob didn’t give a fuck about God or his forgiveness and accepted that Miller wouldn’t forgive him either.  
  
“You killed me,” Miller hissed, half his jaw missing as he climbed to his feet and fixed Jacob with a cold stare.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Jacob whispered, and found that in the raw secrecy of the dream he didn’t quite realize he was having, he meant it.  
  
“You _killed_ me,” Miller snarled, and launched himself at Jacob.  
  
Jacob and Miller had tussled before, always playfully, and even then he’d been a worthy opponent. Now he fell on Jacob with a strength a dead man ought not to have and Jacob, panicked, lost years of military experience in a matter of seconds: He lashed out at Miller like he had when he fought people as a teenager, with wild, sloppy punches and mindless thrashing to throw him off.  
  
Miller’s hands wrapped around his throat, and Jacob started to choke.  
  
“Jacob, _Jacob!_ ”  
  
Jacob kicked out, as something pinned him to the bed-  
  
-bed.  
  
Not the desert.  
  
He was in bed, in Georgia, at home with his brothers.  
  
One of which was currently trying to restrain him.  
  
Joseph eyed Jacob warily, looking for awareness in the oldest Seed’s eyes. “Jacob,” Joseph asked, “You awake?”  
  
“What- yeah,” Jacob said roughly, pushing Joseph off him quickly but without heat or panic. “Yeah. It’s- I’m awake. The fuck are you doing here?”  
  
“You were having a nightmare,” Joseph said carefully, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “We heard you screaming and came to make sure you were alright.”  
  
_We?_ Jacob turned and saw John was lurking nearby, off to the side, and when he turned his head Jacob saw a bruise blossoming over his jaw.  
  
_Where did-?_  
  
It hit him, and it felt as though someone had sucked the organs out of his body, left him cold and hollow inside.  
  
“Did I do that?”  
  
John’s head jerked up, eyes wide. “What- What, this?” He laughed weakly. “No, this was, this was, uh…”  
  
“John.” Joseph’s voice was soft, but firm.  
  
“…Yeah,” John muttered, ducking his head and lowering his voice so much that Jacob almost didn’t hear him. “Whatever, it’s not that bad.” A pause. “You hit like a little bitch.”  
  
Jacob let out a rough, heavy laugh. The pressure had built up inside him so bad that it had to escape somehow, and so his lungs shoved out air and he forced himself to make it sound like something normal. “Sorry,” He wheezed, blinking quickly as his eyes burned warningly. “Sorry, little brother.”  
  
John snorted, whipping out the bravado that had become his shield. “Please, Jacob, I used to get hit way harder than this. This is piddling shit in comparison.”  
  
“Please stop _swearing_ ,” Joseph sang, shooting a pointed look at John.  
  
“Fuck’s sake, Joe, I punched our baby brother in the face and you’re getting grumpy about bad words?”  
  
“You were having a nightmare. It was an accident. Swearing is a choice.”  
  
Jacob rolled his eyes and dropped back onto the bed, rubbing his hands over his face. “Yeah, well, you’re in my room. Oldest rule in the book: My room, my rules.”  
  
Joseph snorted, and for a moment looked like the little brother Jacob remembered. “I suppose that’s fair.”  
  
Jacob eyed John. “You alright, John?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s fine. Like I said, you hit like a bitch. Don’t know why the military ever took you. A determined hedgehog could have taken you out.”  
  
Jacob huffed a little, shook his head. “Shit.” He covered his eyes. A moment later, he felt Joseph’s hand on his arm.  
  
“You alright?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Jacob muttered. “I’m fine. Go back to bed.” He moved his hands and looked back and forth between his brothers. “Next time, stay out of range and just throw something at me.”  
  
“Will do,” John said cheerfully before leaving the room.  
  
Joseph rolled his eyes. “You’re certain you’re alright?” He asked quietly.  
  
This was how it had always been between them- the adults to John’s child, muttering about grownup things behind his back because he wasn’t ready for them. “Yeah, Joseph, I’m good,” Jacob assured. “It’s all part of the fun.”  
  
Joseph nodded, patting Jacob’s arm before standing and leaving the room.  
  
Jacob settled in, trying to ignore the void left by his brothers. He didn’t like that they’d seen him like that, and he definitely didn’t like that he’d managed to clock John in his sleep without even realizing it.  
  
_No more of this,_ Jacob considered, rolling onto his side and staring through the slats in the shades into the night. _No more showing weakness like that. I need to be better than that. I need to be **stronger.**_  
  
And for his brothers, Jacob would be.  
  
-End

**Author's Note:**

> So I was working on this for my hc_bingo card and Some Bullshit(TM) happened on Tumblr, and I ended up rocketing through it sooner than expected.
> 
> Nothing motivates me quite like spite.


End file.
